


Moon Mist

by Hannigrammatic



Series: Spacedogs! [5]
Category: Adam (2009), Charlie Countryman (2013)
Genre: #SpacedogsSummer, Dessert & Sweets, First Dates, First Meetings, M/M, Moon Mist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2016-07-06
Packaged: 2018-07-21 20:35:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7402936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hannigrammatic/pseuds/Hannigrammatic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First meetings, love, and ice cream in the heat of a Californian summer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moon Mist

**Author's Note:**

> I just HAD to contribute to #SpacedogsSummer ♥

When Nigel first set foot on American soil, he had no intention of falling in love. In fact, that was the last thing on his mind, what with his heart still in shambles and his nerves rubbed raw from the way reality chose to smack him in the face. It was easier to say that love was the reason he had to flee his home country in the first place, but Nigel often chose to overlook that little fact.

*

He waits in line at a cafe. It’s the heart of summer, and his clothes are sticking to his back, hair swept over his forehead with a few strands trying their hand at freedom. He’s spinning a faded five-dollar bill in his hand, around and around as the line inches slowly onward. He’s not sure what prompts him to take notice of them man ahead of him, but he does, and he doesn’t realize until much later that he’s doomed immediately (and by then he’s guzzling more whisky than he probably has blood in his body.)

Curls, wild and chocolate brown, stand on end, baring the nape of a neck to his gaze. A messenger bag sits neatly at the stranger’s hip, and his clothes are far out of style for someone who _must_ be younger than Nigel himself -he strains to take in a profile without coming off as a creep, eventually succeeding when a loud sound in the cafe causes the other to jump and search for it’s location. An upturned nose, cupid's bow lips, a glimpse of a large blue eye… Nigel’s nose twitches.

The line proceeds, and finally the man ahead of him leans near the counter to mumble his order, shoulders hunched. Nigel can see that the cashier is familiar with this particular customer, her smile easy and eyes glittering happily. He catches a snatch of a laugh, soft and under breath, and feels an inexplicable jealousy flood him, wishing that he could be the one causing the sound that has his hands sweating quite suddenly. And then, dear god, the man ahead of him turns around cupping a mug of something steaming in his hands, both of them curled protectively around porcelain. 

Wide eyes search his own for a split second, finding him standing too close evidently, as the man takes a reflexive step backwards. Then they skitter away and Nigel watches a nervous figure patter over to a single round table with his beverage.

“Sir?” a voice catches Nigel’s attention. “Are you ready to order?”

He looks at the girl behind the counter and sniffs. He would be embarrassed at having been caught in any other situation: now, however, he’s far too distracted.

“Coffee,” he grunts. “Black.”

“For here or to go?” she asks pleasantly, blinking at him.

“Here.”

Nigel passes her the money, attempting not to snarl at the spark of knowing that comes to life in her gaze, even despite _wanting_ her to know in a small part of his stomach that his blatant interest is something that he is not ashamed of. Suddenly things become a lot more confusing than they were when he first stepped foot in the cafe seeking some blessed caffeine. He accepts said drink in a mug identical to the one cradled close to the edge of a table, in easy reach for the man sitting straight-backed in a cushioned white chair. He makes a beeline for it.

“Hi,” Nigel says by way of greeting, lack of finesse a thing in his blood as much as he didn’t care for it.

Those blue eyes flit at him and then away, a mouth pressing pink lips tight together.

“I don’t want to talk,” the man says.

Nigel holds his mug halfway to his mouth, intending to take a sip, and now he pauses. Such a sweet face and a soft voice, giving life to such harsh, deadpan words. He’s not sure if he’s impressed or insulted.

“I was only saying hi,” he drawls, standing over the man’s table, free hand coming to rest on his hip.

“I know, but I don’t want to talk. I don’t know you and it makes me uncomfortable,” matter-of-fact voice spouts words Nigel is sure are familiar and frequently spoken.

“You won’t know me if you don’t talk to me,” he argues.

The small man scrunches his nose up and opts to take a sip of his hot chocolate, which Nigel can smell now that he is near. He fails to initiate eye-contact, and grows slightly flustered as he stands there.

“I’ll leave if you don’t go away,” the stranger says after swallowing his mouthful of hot drink.

Nigel fights back a sigh and accepts defeat despite not wanting to budge an inch. He feels like he could stand there forever waiting for sapphire-blues to grace him once more. Instead, he sits in a chair nearby, and drinks his coffee while attempting not to glance sidelong at a stiff figure. When he leaves, he casts one last glance at the stranger (who he would much prefer to not remain such), and then strides out into the busy California streets.

*

Next time he sees the man, it’s at a small grocery store. They’re in the same aisle, perusing dry pasta. Nigel doesn’t realize it’s him until a soft ‘excuse me’ is uttered when they bump hands on the same box of mac and cheese. The stuff is atrociously unhealthy, with enough sodium to kill a lesser man, but he’s addicted to it. That, and it’s dirt cheap. He blinks stupidly for a minute when he recognizes the man next to him, and then opens his mouth.

“Oh,” the other says, eyes wide and searching his face for a split-second. “It’s you.”

The direct comment has Nigel snorting. He’s more happy that he’s been remembered, though.

“Nigel,” he says.

“What?”

“My name. It’s Nigel.”

Curly brown hair is damp, most likely from a shower. It’s early, before the lunch rush in the little grocery place, and it appears that they both had the same idea. Nigel attempts not to take in the man, but it’s a hopeless fight, and he observes the way a slim black turtleneck hugs a lean frame. Dark navy jeans, a size too big, hang off of trim hips. Old, worn sneakers are tied neatly, and the smaller man holds a plastic basket at his side, empty other than a six-pack of orange soda.

“Oh,” the man says. “I didn’t ask for your name.”

_Nigel, you idiot, what are you even doing?_

“I figured I’d offer it,” he says before he can frown, forcing his lips into a cheeky grin.

“Well thank you.”

And then the man walks away after placing several boxes of mac and cheese neatly into the basket. He doesn’t look back, although he must sense Nigel’s gaze burning into him.

*

Hunched over the bar, Nigel tosses back a shot. He gestures for another one immediately.

“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” the bartender comments with a snicker. “I can’t tell if you’re heartbroken or lovesick.”

Nigel glares, gives up when he decides it’s not exactly a good idea to piss off the person providing you with alcohol, and then shrugs.

“Both,” he feels compelled to answer, tossing the shot. “But who isn’t either of those, huh?”

The man behind the bar tips his head and pours him another shot on the house. Nigel downs it, nods his thanks, and then proceeds to get drunk, silent once more.

He stumbles to his apartment after a long walk, perturbed that the fresh air hadn’t done much to improve his state. His clothes are on the floor before he has the front door shut and locked. In bed, he jerks off into his fist, eyes shut tight against a dizzying tide, the image of blue eyes etched into his eyelids.

*

Wishful thinking has him at the cafe early one Sunday morning, nursing a mug of coffee while sitting in a corner. He hasn’t bothered taming his hair, and the long strands fall into his face as he slouches there, eyes glued to the scratched surface of the table. He’s already eaten the bagel he ordered, and it settles in his stomach uncertainly because he’s a fucking bundle of nerves for no goddamn reason.

“Adam,” a voice chirps.

Nigel’s head snaps up to find _him_ sitting in the chair across from him. How long he had been there was a mystery that he didn’t care to decipher. All that mattered was that he was, and that this certainly was no dream. Nigel straightens in his chair with a raised eyebrow.

“I thought you didn’t want to talk?” he asks playfully.

A brow furrows, and those lips purse adorably for a second. Then those eyes are narrowing playfully. 

“I didn’t,” he states. “Until I did.”

From there, they meet at the same cafe sporadically over the next few weeks. Nigel doesn’t allow himself to face the truth of the matter, that he’s falling head over heels in love with someone he barely knows. Maybe he already was, when he first saw saw the man in front of him in line. In the end it didn’t matter, even on those days that Nigel couldn’t believe he was still alive, let alone lucky enough to have found the love of his life _again_.

*

Their first official date is at an ice cream parlor. The sign above boasts that there are plenty of gourmet flavors. Nigel goes for plain chocolate, comfortable with simplicity, and honestly just a huge fan of chocolate in general. Adam selects a flavor titled Moon Mist, pastel blue, purple, and yellow colors a bright contrast to his own cold treat.

They sit at a table outside and devour their respective flavors, but Nigel finds himself distracted (predictably) by the tiny pink tongue lapping at the mysteriously named ice cream. He looks from his own cone to Adam’s, and the smaller man catches him.

“You want to try some of mine?” he asks with a grin.

Nigel nods, cheeks heating. He opens his mouth when Adam leans over the table with the ice cream offered willingly. When the taste floods his tongue, he’s uncertain what to think, other than that it’s damn _delicious_. He smacks his lips and smiles.

“It’s good,” he says truthfully. “I don’t know what the flavor is supposed to be, but it’s great.”

Adam smiles happily and nods. He begins to explain the flavor as they finish their desserts, and then the conversation turns to a familiar topic that has Nigel’s head swimming in confusion and honest interest. Space, stars, the moon, all of those intricate things that he has learned quickly belong to Adam in a way that nothing ever has to Nigel. He’s a passionate man, perhaps too much if his past is any example (and the scar on the side of his head where he’d been shot, the last time he saw his ex-wife so long ago that fateful night in Bucharest). 

With Adam, though, passion becomes a way of life, an integration of his very existence with that of otherworldly facts and truths and tidbits and knowledge, endless and remembered as if they were inscribed in his very veins. Nigel knows he’s in love with Adam for certain, that day at the ice cream parlor, as they considered the colorful palette that was Moon Mist, and the even more curious flavor that boasted to be grape, banana, raspberry, and bubblegum.

He’s slightly envious of Adam’s capability to thrive in life with that very passion. His work, his time off, his evenings revolve around computations, revelations, discoveries, and the like that surround the topic of space as a whole. Mostly, he admires it, and realizes that he’s very much becoming a poor sod of a love-stricken fool.

Maybe that’s okay, though, because Adam is unlike anyone or anything that he has ever beheld before.

Like Moon Mist ice cream, he’s unique, mysterious, and delicious (the last, Nigel has learned to covet and dream about even as he slept curled tightly around the smaller man after a long, damp night making love), and Nigel wouldn’t have it any other way.

*

Years later, they visit the parlor, glad and surprised to find it standing even still, despite having moved from California to Canada, where they had married happily and purchased a small home in the West. This time, they both get Moon Mist, and they sit close together sharing their dessert with each other through ice cream-smeared kisses. Nigel’s face hurts he’s smiling so much.

And that’s definitely okay.


End file.
